


ColdWave Winter Wonderland Week

by musicmillennia



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Barry the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Blow Jobs, Cardigans, Codependency, Confused Uber Driver, Fluff, Implied Stalking, Jealousy, Joe West Did Not Sign Up for This, Len Loves Cocoa, M/M, Marriage, Misunderstandings, Mrs. Claus Len, Possessive Behavior, Santa Mick, Search Your Feelings you stubborn assholes, Summer Mick, Winter Len, fight and make up, hints of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-09 14:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8893630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicmillennia/pseuds/musicmillennia
Summary: [tags will be added with each day.]Day 1 (roasting on an open fire): Mister 101 [Snow Miser Len/Heat Miser Mick]Day 2, Chapters 2+3 (outside the snow is falling): Winter and Santa Claus [Mrs. Claus Len/Santa Mick] Parts 1 and 2Day 3 (naughty or nice): I'll Be Home for Christmas [serial killer au, aka why this is rated M]Day 4 (happy holidays): Hallmark Cardigan





	1. Day 1: Mister 101

**Author's Note:**

> Summary:  
> Day 1: roasting on an open fire  
> Sometimes Mick Rory is too much. Leonard Snart deals with him.
> 
> Kudos to anybody who gets the references in the title and summary.

Mick Rory’s den is located in a volcano, and he calls _Leonard_ dramatic.

On the surface, one of his favorite fireballs recognizes him. “Cold! What’re you doin’ here?”

“I was in the area,” Leonard says, “figured I’d drop in, say hello to an old friend.”

Jax balks. “Old friend, huh?”

Leonard’s teeth are practically icicles. He turns their sharp points at Jax. “Oh yes,” he purrs, predator-smooth, “my oldest friend. My _best_ friend.”

“Uh. Yeah. I’m not touchin’ that. You go on ahead.”

Leonard prowls into the volcano, drawing every ounce of cold he has. He’s still melting by the time he reaches the very bottom, because Mick is just the _greatest friend._

Up a short flight of jagged steps, Mick’s lounging on his throne of molten rock, guzzling lava from a chalice. Around him, his fireballs feed the volcano’s flame with a deceptive abandon that would fool anyone but Natural beings, who know all too well the delicate balance of maintaining a volcano without eruption. Their heads and hands are on fire, like Jax’s.

When Mick sees him, he straightens. “ _Snart_.”

“ _Mick_ ,” Leonard bites back.

“What’re you doing here?”

Leonard takes slow steps up to the throne. “Thought we agreed on a white Christmas this year. I’ve let you have your fun—”

“You don’t _let_ me do anything,” Mick snarls, hand clenching around his chalice. “You’re not the boss of me.”

“I have every right to order you back to the tropics,” Leonard says, “now I’ve been very patient, Mick, but it’s December. My season, my rules. Start another heat wave in Australia, I don’t care, but I have rights over the North and you know it.”

“Poor Lenny,” Mick simpers, “can’t take the heat?”

“I’m not having another green Christmas, _Mick_. Don’t make me force you out.”

Mick laughs. “You wanna settle this right now? You’re melting in your boots like a little icicle.”

Leonard forces himself to take a deep breath. The smoke almost chokes him, but he refuses to show it. “What do you want?”

Mick blinks. “What?”

“You’re an impulsive guy, Mick, but you never do anything without a reason, even if it’s a simple one like having fun. So what are you aiming for with these green Christmases?”

“You’re _Jewish_. Why do you even care?”

“Hanukkah’s also under my time, but I figured I’d start with the one-day holiday this year because I’ve been lenient. What do you want?”

Mick shrugs. He relaxes back in his throne, but Len can see the coiled muscle underneath his thin shirt. “You already guessed it,” he says with a manic grin, “‘Cause it’s _fun_.”

“Fun would be two years, tops,” Len says, “not four. I know you.”

“And I know you,” Mick says, “at least I thought I did.”

Len’s eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mick chugs the rest of his lava. Carelessly tossing his chalice, he stands and asks, “How’re the winter shadows?”

Len’s eyebrows twitch together. “Sara’s fine. She could be better, if you stuck to your lands.”

“Oh, I’ll be sure to do that,” Mick says, “wouldn’t want to upset Sara.”

Len follows him down the steps. “Why are you bringing this up?”

Mick rounds on him, heat pooling in his eyes. “You wanna know what I want, Snart?” he hisses.

“Usually to burn something,” Leonard says, “which can be arranged—”

“I want _you_.”

Len was. Not expecting that.

“Me,” he says flatly.

“You’ve been in your little ice cave with the shadows. Haven’t even fought back when I stayed for your season. It’s taken you four years to get your ass down here and all you do is _talk_.”

“So you want a fight.” That Leonard can do.

“I thought you were my partner, Len. You always said we were partners. Then Sara came along, and she was alright until she _stole_ you.”

“Stole me.” Leonard crosses his arms. “That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I know.”

“Let me get this straight. You think that I let you have four winters because I’ve been holed up in my mountain with a woman?”

Mick nods.

“So you’re jealous.”

Leonard gets a fierce growl for that. “I ain’t some teenager, Snart.”

“Mhm. Then you don’t want me to walk out and go back to Sara?” Mick growls again. “Right. You do remember I tied my existence to _yours_ , right?”

Mick bunches his shoulders a little. “Doesn’t gotta mean anything. We’re opposites. Kinda have to be tied.”

“You said yourself that you know me. Would I ever bind myself to someone if I didn’t mean it?”

“…no.”

“Then you should also know that Sara is just a friend. She helps me out is all. Besides, I’m almost positive my sister’s after her.”

Mick rears up. “Why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?”

“Didn’t think it was important.”

“Didn’t thi— _Len_.”

“I thought you knew.”

“That your sister wanted to screw Sara?”

“That you matter to me,” Leonard snaps.

Mick’s arms fall to his sides. Even the fireballs have gone quiet.

Leonard’s a little shocked himself, but, in for a penny…“Mick, you are my partner. That hasn’t changed, and it never will, even when you’re a jackass.” Mick grunts, giving him a ‘pot, kettle’ scowl. “I let you have those winters because I thought you wanted them. I could’ve fought you at any time, but I asked my sister to talk to you instead. It’s called a gift, Mick.”

Mick shakes his head. “You gave me four winters. _Four_.”

Leonard looks at the rock to the side. “Yeah, well, it’s been four centuries since we stole the seasons from Lewis.”

Mick is silent.

Then he starts laughing.

 “Aw, Lenny,” he guffaws, “an anniversary present?”

Leonard glares at him. “If I’d known you were just gonna act like a kid about it, I would’ve taken four summers instead.”

Mick grins. “That’s why you stayed away.”

Leonard shrugs, subtly curling around himself. “If I’d gone out in the middle of what’s supposed to be my season, I’d bring the cold back in a second.”

“Aw, Lenny,” Mick says again. “C’mere.”

He takes Leonard’s face in his hands and pulls him into a kiss. It’s on the soft side, nothing like their usual. But it’s nice, and Leonard really had missed Mick. They don’t get to see each other often enough as it is since taking over heat and cold, and he’d pulled away entirely.

Fuck. How’d he do it?

Mick hums into the kiss. “Let’s get you outta here. You’re gonna turn into a puddle in a minute.”

He wipes some of Leonard’s cold sweat and steers him towards the surface.

“It’s gonna be a white Christmas,” Leonard says.

Mick smiles. “Sure, Len. Whatever you want.”


	2. Day 2: Winter and Santa Claus, PART I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Day 2: outside the snow is falling]  
> Whoever said Mrs. Claus was a Mrs. can shove it up their heteronormative ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical accuracy? Ha. Ha-ha. This is Legends of Tomorrow fanfiction we're talking about.

Long, _long_ ago, a boy and his sister were tied to a stake on suspicion of witchcraft. They were back to back, bound hands clutching at each other.

The winter wind bellowed through the field outside their village, whipping through the very soil as it never had before. The villagers fearfully claimed it was the witches’ doing and hurried to build a fire.

Now, of course the boy was not a witch, and neither was his sister. No, this boy was just a thief. A very good one, though you wouldn’t suspect it from his scrawny frame.

For these outlaws were only children. The thief was fourteen. His sister was barely seven.

The villagers could not build a fire. The wind was too vicious. So they decided to bundle up two men in their thickest coats and place them around the stake. If nothing else, they could try freezing the witches to death and burn the corpses later.

Instead, another boy, all in red, knocked out the guards and cut the siblings loose.

The thief scooped his sister into his skinny arms and held her tight. “Who are you?” he demanded of the boy.

The boy gave him a lop-sided grin. “Fine gratitude,” he said in a heavy accent, “but call me Nick.”

Yet the wind roared so loudly in his ears that the thief mistook the name. “Mick, huh?”

The boy blinked. Then he grinned again. “Yeah. Mick. I like that better. What about you?”

The thief glanced around, as if expecting a trap. “…Leonard.”

Mick wrinkled his nose. “Mind if I call you Len?”

“Are you planning on following me?”

“Well, I don’t have any plans until tonight.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Mick nodded towards the forest behind him. “I’ll show you.”

Len’s sister peeked at him then. Her eyes widened in childish wonder.

“You’re…you’re very young,” she says.

Mick shrugged. “I’m new. The one before me abandoned his post.”

“What are you talking about, sister?” Len asked.

“Lenny,” his sister whispered, “it’s Father Christmas!”

Len balked. Mick didn’t look like the father of anything, much less Father Christmas.

Mick shrugged again. “Most kids can always tell. Even a few adults, though they usually grow out of the belief.”

“No,” Len said.

“Yes.”

“That is impossible.”

“Follow me and I’ll prove it.”

“Lenny!” Len’s sister whined, “Come on! I want to see the sleigh!”

Mick raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, Lenny.”

Len glared at him. “If this is some sort of trick—”

“I saved your life. Why would this be a trick? Come on!”

Mick turned and headed to the woods. Len’s sister wriggled out of his arms and trotted after him. Len had no choice but to follow.

Mick picked and ill-used path and walked along with sure steps. “What is your name, little girl?”

“Elisabeth,” she answered, “but Lenny calls me Lisa!”

Len grabbed her hand. “Why is it so quiet?” he asked.

For the winter wind had indeed calmed immensely. The trees did not sway; the squirrels and birds came out of hiding. But Mick didn’t seem to be surprised at the sudden change.

With perfect ease, he replied, “Because you are safe, Len.”

Len stopped, forcing Lisa to stop with him. “What does _that_ mean?”

Mick smiled. “You have no idea how much winter loves you, do you?”

“I do not have magic.”

“You don’t need magic for a season to like you. Were you born in winter?”

Len narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

Mick huffed. “You are so suspicious. It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but come on. I’m not asking for your life story.”

“…yes, I was born in winter.”

“There’s a reason for it to love you right there. A winter’s child—a _favorite_ child—burned at the stake? That would not do. And me, I need winter on my side for what I do.”

“As Father Christmas,” Len said, unimpressed.

But Mick just nodded and said, “As Father Christmas. I am of age, you know.”

Lisa tugged at Len’s arm. “Lenny, stop stalling! I want to see the sleigh!”

Mick walked on. Lisa yanked Len after him.

But Len refused to stop there. “Why would winter favor me?”

“All I know is that it does,” Mick replied, “you’ll just have to ask it.”

“I have to ask _winter_ why it likes me.”

“Yes.”

“That is about as absurd as your being Father Christmas.”

“Lenny!” Lisa hissed.

Mick merely laughed, loud and hearty. Around him, the forest itself seemed to liven, the trees becoming more vivid in color, their barks brighter and their berries redder. Len put a protective hand on Lisa’s shoulder.

“You still don’t believe me,” Mick said.

“I believe you about as much as reindeer can fl…”

Mick spun on his heel. “What was that?”

Lisa squealed, running from Len’s slackened grip in favor of throwing her arms around the nearest reindeer.

And there were reindeer. Eight of them, with antlers that looked bigger than Len, tied together by red reins bedecked with sleigh bells. Attached to their halters were small gold plates with their names printed in neat green calligraphy that sparkled under the pale winter sun:

Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen.

Len gaped openly at them, and at the large red sleigh they pulled. Its rich green velvet seat looked incredibly soft and big enough for four grown men to sit comfortably, with plenty of leg room besides. It stood on legs of shiny gold. There was no sac in the back.

Mick patted Comet’s neck and said, “It’s still February, so I don’t deliver presents yet. But I do have plenty of other tasks to finish before Christmas Eve.”

“So you…” Len swallowed. “You really do deliver them all in one night?”

“This is my first year,” Mick admitted sheepishly, “but that’s how the one before me did it. He grew tired of it after a few centuries.”

“That…you’re immortal then.”

“Yes. I will age, though. I need to have the beard and everything,” Mick said. “Though I’m not looking forward to that.”

“One night to do it all.”

“We have established that, yes.”

Len shook himself out of his stupor. “It just seems impractical.”

Mick let out a surprised laugh. “I just showed you and your sister proof that I am Father Christmas, and you call me _impractical_?”

“Even for a magical being, delivering presents to so many in just one night must be taxing,” Len said. “That must be why your predecessor was depicted with a white beard despite his immortality. The burden of having only one night to complete his task aged him.”

Mick blinked. “I…had not thought of it like that.”

“I wouldn’t think so,” Len said, “tradition is a hard mold to break.”

“Then what would you do if you were in my boots?”

Len shrugged a shoulder. “Simple. I would deliver some presents over the course of the month and save only a slightly larger pile for Christmas Eve to keep up the appearance of only one night a year. That way I save time and don’t fall under the weight of stress. And,” Len added thoughtfully, “I think I would get someone else.”

Mick’s grin had returned full force. “Oh?”

“Yes. Two sleighs are better than one when you have so much to deliver. Someone with magic too, of course. I don’t know if you can share your immortality, but that way you could cut the delivery time in half.”

“You know,” Mick said, “I think I know why winter favors you so much.”

Len crossed his arms. “Do you now?”

Mick drew closer, still careful not to intrude on Len’s space. “I believe winter knew there was something special about you. I believe it knew you and I would be a good team.”

Len scoffed. “ _Team_?”

“Well, I was thinking partners. Your idea has so much merit.”

Lisa gasped. “Lenny, are you gonna work with Father Christmas?!”

“I…” Len shook his head. “I told you I have no magic.”

“And I told you that winter loves you.” Mick stepped closer. “Len, it would give you magic if you asked.”

“That is—”

“If you say ‘impossible’, may I direct your attention back to my magical flying sleigh? I didn’t have magic either, you know. It was passed to me, the identity of Father Christmas.” Mick held out his hand. “Come on, Len. Just help me this Christmas Eve. If you truly do not wish to be my partner, I will take you and your sister wherever you like.”

Lisa clapped her hands. “I can come too?”

“Of course. You’re his sister.”

Lisa cheered. Her happiness, not seen in so long for someone so young, softened Len immediately.

He took Mick’s hand and shook it once. “This Christmas Eve.”

Mick beamed. His cheeks became rosier, almost as red as his clothes (his relatively simple clothes. Apparently not even Father Christmas dressed up all the time).

He tugged Len to his sleigh. “Then we should be on our way. Partner.”

Lisa leaped in first. Len situated her between him and Mick.

Mick winked. “Hold on tight.”

“To what?” Len asked.

“Oh…uh. Good question. The side?”

Len rolled his eyes. “You need more help than you think, Mick.”

“Good thing I have you now.”

While Len processed that, Mick flicked the reins and called out something in an ancient language. They took off to the sky, Lisa laughing in the wind.

“Do you actually live in the North Pole?” she called.

Mick nodded. “The elves and reindeer love winter. This way, we have it all year round.”

He looked oddly disgruntled. Len wondered if Mick himself liked winter at all.

“Do you ever go anywhere else?” Len asked.

Mick shrugged. “I used to live in Ireland. Don’t know if you noticed the accent.”

“I meant after you—got the job.”

“No…?”

Len huffed.

Mick glanced at him with trepidation. “I’m doin’ a lotta things wrong, aren’t I?”

“We’ll talk later,” Len replied.

“Yep, I’m doin’ things wrong.”

Lisa giggled.

 

When Len was six, his father moved from London to the New World. Len still remembered London, though. The Tower most of all, with its huge walls and looming stone.

Mick’s workshop dwarfed the Tower of London. Despite being covered in snow and ice, Len could see its enormous square walls almost touching the sky, spires twisting into their own poles on each turret. The sleigh had a runway of its own that lead down to a large set of thick doors in a courtyard near the front.

But for all its size and sturdiness, Len wasn’t too impressed. Lisa cheered for both of them.

“What?” Mick said.

Len shrugged. “We’ll talk later.”

“Oh great,” Mick muttered.

Inside, the reindeer were lead into their own stalls by a bunch of creatures of varied ages dressed in faded clothes and hats. Elves.

One stormed over with their hands up. “Sir! Sir, who are they? What did we tell you about secrets, sir?!”

While holding his arms out to help his sister down, Len coldly replied, “We are here to help clean up this operation. Do you have a study, Mick?”

“Mick?” whispered the elf. Then they shook their head and cried, “Regardless, we are operating very well, have been for years!”

Mick scratched the back of his head. “You were right about tradition, Len.”

Len held his sister’s hand. “Yes you have,” he told the elf, “but you could be working so much better. I have some ideas.”

“How old are you anyway?” the elf demanded.

“Fourteen.”

“ _Fourtee_ —sir, you cannot be serious!”

Mick waved to Len. “Study’s this way.”

The elf screeched after them. Lisa’s laughing at how high their voice got was the only recognition they received.

The study was located through the vast workshop proper. Len had never seen so many people—er, elves—in one place. But the walls were solemn grey, the ceiling claustrophobic, and just like the annoying one, the elves’ clothes were as worn as Len’s and his sister’s. In addition, the study was on the same floor as them.

Mick shut the doors firmly, locking out the yelling and overwhelming noise of the room. The study itself was the same block as the rest of the place, just smaller. The only window was covered in snow, making the room dark but for the candles Mick lit with a snap of his fingers. There was a desk, a chair, a few shelves and tables, but it was mostly bare.

“With all the work I got, I still haven’t had much time to decorate,” Mick said, wringing his black leather gloves in his hands. “So. Y’know.”

Lisa wrapped her arms around herself. “I’m cold.”

“Yeah. It’s always warm on the sleigh, but…” Mick shrugged. “There are a lot of fireplaces around, but. Here.”

He offered his red cloak. Lisa practically drowned in it, but she sighed happily and thanked him.

Len decided to be a little merciful then. “Do you have a map?”

“Of what?”

Len raised an eyebrow. “The North Pole. This building.”

“Oh! Yeah, yes, just a moment…” Mick hurried to the other side of his desk and opened a few drawers. “Ah…here we are!”

He laid out some very, _very_ old pieces of parchment that were crumbling at the edges. Len pulled out Mick’s chair and put Lisa in it before tugging Mick to his side.

“Let’s start simple,” Len said. “The new sleigh and the reindeer.”

 

Delivering presents was…a lot more fun than Len thought it would be.

For one thing, he got to learn about different locks and points of entry. He already had some stealth as a thief, and he got plenty of practice when sneaking in presents to houses.

Then there was the fact that, if only for one year, he had his own sleigh and reindeer. He made quite a few adjustments to this one, and to Mick’s as well. For one thing, there were doors on the sides now, and bars along the front for safety. Instead of green, Len went with blue seats, although he was forced to keep the red for posterity. Lisa adored helping the elves put the gold bells on the reindeer.

Speaking of reindeer, apparently Mick’s eight charges weren’t the only ones to be had in the workshop. They were just the best. But they were reindeer, and there were does. Meaning, all eight had plenty of descendants for Len to choose from. He took a sample and checked them against Mick’s eight, and ‘lo and behold, there were many who could make the cut.

Len wasn’t so good at naming, though, so he gave that task to his sister while he went over a few more things with Mick. By the time he got back, Lisa had them all figured out.

“That one’s Peek-a-boo,” she said, pointing to one of the two does Len chose (much to that annoying elf’s screeching), “’cause she likes to play peek-a-boo with me. And he’s Pied Piper, ‘cause he’s got so many rats in his stall! And Wizard, he’s got lots and lots of magic! He grew that mistletoe, see? And there’s Trickster and Trickster Jr., ‘cause they’re the ones who keep takin’ the hats off the elves’ heads. And Rainbow, ‘cause he’s so pretty, just like a rainbow! And Top, she can spin _really_ fast if you run around with a stick! And that’s Mirror Master! He likes to look in the mirror all the time!”

Len hugged her tight. “Great job, Lisa. They’re perfect.”

“I wanted the best for you, Lenny,” Lisa said solemnly.

Len made a note to tell Mick about dusting the room and went back to his plans.

So, with his own reindeer and sleigh, Len was able to keep a gradual trickle of presents each night. Lisa, wrapped up in a pretty red dress, cloak, and mittens all lined with white fur, joined him, feeding the reindeer carrots and passing her brother presents. Len had never seen her so happy.

Which begged the question: what was Len going to do?

Objectively, he knew he could never go back to Salem. He knew now that his father was a cruel man, and would sooner turn his children right back to the stake than help them. Still, he had just turned fifteen, and his only skills were more suited to thieving. He considered military, but that would leave his sister alone, and he’d sooner saw off his arm than leave Lisa.

He could try to get an apprenticeship in another town, maybe steal some things on the side to help support his sister.

But then Len would turn back to the maps and notes on Mick’s desk.

He _loved_ the North Pole. He got to give orders, make vast improvements, help bring happiness to the entire world, _and_ still have enough food and shelter for him and his sister. He got to see Lisa smile and dance and make toys, see her earn the adoration of every elf and reindeer, while still making time to go to the ill-used library and spend time on her studies with him. Len saw a wonderful future for her here, and, just maybe, for himself.

And then there was Mick.

Mick, who was nineteen by that December, but still deferred to fifteen year old Len with sincerity. Who asked thoughtful questions, who was guardian to Lisa, who genuinely cared about those under his charge. Who longed for warmer weather but stayed at the North Pole anyway because he knew commitment and the importance of what he did. Who was funny, brash, and wild. Len’s best friend—his only friend.

By the time Christmas Eve came, Len found himself seriously considering if he should stay for a while longer. At least until he was sixteen, surely. Or perhaps eighteen, or…

“Len!”

Mick, draped in the iconic red suit and clutching the brim of the hat, ran over to Len’s sleigh.

“You remember our deal, right?” he asked, cheeks rosy as ever, “Tomorrow, you’ll tell me if you wanna stay?”

Len nodded.

“Great. I…” Mick scuffed his boot. “I hope you’ll—deliver your presents fast. ‘Cause I’m gonna ride twice as hard tonight!”

Len smirked. “So you say.”

Lisa hopped up next to him, throwing her arms around his waist. “Lenny, let’s go!”

Mick backed up. “I’ll probably be in bed by the time you get back.”

Len took his reins. “Of course. One of the elves may remember to deliver your presents.”

Mick’s indignant shout was drowned by Len’s take-off.

There was a slightly heavier load as Len planned, but if anything it was even _more_ fun. The rush of air, the thrill of the race against time, of sneaking down a chimney or through a window or even the front door, it all felt like the perfect crime. Except this time, Len was actually giving instead of taking (save for one or two jewels, but those houses could afford new ones). It felt wonderful. It felt _right_.

On top of one roof, Lisa looked at her lap and quietly asked, “Lenny…we _are_ staying, aren’t we?”

Len climbed back into the sleigh. “Do you want to, Lisa?”

“Yes,” Lisa replied instantly, “yes, yes! I love it there, Lenny. I wanna—I wanna stay at home.”

Len swallowed. “Home, huh?”

“Isn’t it home for you too? With Mick and—and everyone? What about the reindeer too? They’re _your_ reindeer!”

Len looked at them. He found that each and every head was turned to him.

Reindeer, it seemed, could look just like puppies if they tried.

“Mick said you were partners,” Lisa wheedled, “and you’re so happy being partners! Please, Lenny?”

Len slowly took his reins. “I…will talk to Mick.”

Lisa cheered loud enough to wake every house on the street. Len got away just in time.

 

When Len returned, Mick was leaning against his own sleigh, smirking from ear to ear.

“It was my first year,” Len said, “I’ll beat you next time.”

Mick’s entire expression changed. He looked—well. He looked like a child on Christmas morning.

“Next time, huh?”

Len bumped their shoulders. “You can share immortality, right?”

“Yeah,” Mick whispered, “I know I can. I-I’ll find a way.” His laugh filled the stables. “You bet your arse I’ll find a way!”

 

On New Year’s Day, Len wrapped himself in the thickest furs the workshop had and ventured into the courtyard by the runway.

It was a quiet day, the aftermath of a particularly violent blizzard. The annoying elf, who kept trying to remind Len that his name was _Rip, thank you very much_ , whined about it until Mick melted chocolate in the biggest pot Len had ever seen and let everyone have at it. It was the best New Year’s Eve Len and Lisa had ever had.

(Len thought the chocolate could use some improvements; when he told Mick, Mick had smiled and affectionately said, “Of course y’do.”)

But this year was the most important, besides the year Lisa was born. Because this year, Len knew what he was going to do with his life, and he had people—and reindeer, and elves—to share that purpose with.

Still, for all that, Mick still couldn’t find anything about sharing immortality that didn’t involve magic on both sides. Unless Len wanted to become undead, which he most certainly did _not_ , he needed something else.

So, here Len stood. No one would disturb him out here. No one loved the cold as much as he did.

Then again, apparently the cold loved him back.

Len secured his hood over his head. “Uh…winter?”

More quiet. But Len refused to be discouraged.

He squared his tiny shoulders and spoke clearly: “Winter. I have been told that I am your favorite child. According to M—Father Christmas, you sent him to save me and my sister from burning. You have given me a…a place to stay, where my sister can live a happy life. I wish to know how I can repay you for these gifts, that I may trade for one more.”

He thought he would have to wait for an answer, like the heroes in fairy tales who have to try three times. But the moment he stopped speaking, Len became aware of a strange sound in the distance—it almost sounded like a song, but he remembered it from his days in Salem when his mother was still alive. He told her it sounded like an owl, but she laughed, kissed his head, and said it was the wind.

The presence felt like his mother. Soft as fresh powder, gentle and sweet as Lisa’s hugs. It was what winter always felt like to Len, even when it nearly tore the sky apart with its storms.

“ _Child_ ,” it whispered, “ _what I wish is your happiness_.”

Len blinked. The voice itself didn’t frighten him. When you live with magic for so long, you tend to grow accustomed to it. But…

“Surely there must be something else,” he said.

“ _Did your mortal mother ask for anything more?_ ”

Len looked at his hands. He didn’t remember clasping them. “No,” he murmured.

“ _I love you._ ” Len started at the words. “ _I do. And that is my only wish._ ”

“I need magic,” Len blurted, “just enough so I can be Mick’s partner. And for my sister as well,” he added quickly, “if she died before me, I would never be happy again.”

The wind whistled, a mother’s crooning song. “ _I will give you so much more, my child. Do you trust me?_ ”

Len looked around. He knew he had to answer honestly, but no one had ever asked him such a question. He had trusted his mother. He trusted Lisa. He trusted—

Len whipped his head back to the space in front of him, where he imagined Winter standing despite its very clearly being all about him. He thought of the cold, the first snow of the season, of his sister ice skating on the pond near their town, of the carols his mother would sing because if she sang anything else her husband would choke her.

He thought of the late nights when he and his mother would light a candle, one of eight, and digging the Torah out from under the floorboards. When they held hands and whispered old chants, even when he stumbled a little over the Hebrew. When his mother kissed his small fingers, her lips cold from the ice creeping into their house.

“My child,” she would whisper, “my beautiful son.”

She had been whipped to death in the summer, when Len was nine. A slave, she had been, and Len’s heritage had been stamped on his father’s white bride, the woman who would be the dismissive mother of Lisa.

No, summer was no friend of his. Winter held the most of his cherished memories, held snow and ice and candlelight.

Len thought of all this, and answered, “Yes.”

The wind sighed around his furs. “ _Close your eyes._ ”

When Len woke, Mick was yelling his name and he felt the strangest urge to hug himself.

Mick’s mouth dropped when he saw his eyes. “Winter,” he whispered.

Len waved him off. “What are you talking about?”

Mick laughed. “You have no idea, do you?”

“About what, Mick?”

Mick jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Come back inside. It’s damn freezing out here, and you need to see yourself.”

The elves regarded Len with the same shock. Len was forced to go to Mirror Master’s stall to get a look at his reflection.

Instead of green and brown, Len’s eyes were icy blue. And when he started to wonder why, his skin turned to ice.

“You didn’t just get magic,” Mick said, “you got winter itself. Only you, Lenny, you mad bastard!”

Len looked at his frosted fingers. “I’m…winter?”

“Lenny!” Lisa called, “You look so pretty!”

Yes, he did. Len was beautiful. Magnificent. He should be cherished, should be loved—what?

Len laughed to himself. Right. Winter saw him as its favorite son. Now _he_ saw _himself_ as his favorite.

He wondered if this crossed the line between self-confidence and sheer narcissism.

Len exited Mirror Master’s stall with a pat on the reindeer’s neck. “Looks like Winter’s on your side after all, Mick.”

Mick just kept laughing.

“Can I look pretty too, Lenny?” Lisa asked.

Len looked at her. Love filled his chest as it always did when he saw his baby sister, but this time something was different. He couldn’t place it, but he knew he had to act on it.

He took her into his arms. “Lisa, you’re already the prettiest girl in the world.”

She shone gold in his eyes. Where he was the cold, she was the candlelight, adored and longed for, a gift in every hearth and wick. She tread through the snow unfettered and unafraid, both protected and protector, for Winter loved her more than his own existence.

The room erupted into whispers. Mick, of course, wasn’t nearly so quiet.

“You both are _wonders_ , y’know that?” he cried, “Bloody wonders!”

Lisa giggled and swung her feet on Len’s knees.

“So does that mean we can get married now?”

Len’s head shot up. “Come again?”

 

Apparently, that was the condition. Winter was immortal on its own, but if Len was to stay and be Mick’s partner, he’d need some more autonomy, a tether. Lisa could settle at any hearth she pleased, but Len’s power was too ethereal.

Therefore, he and Mick needed to bind their lives together. Marriage was the safest and more air-tight way.

“Two men can’t get married,” Len said.

Mick rolled his eyes. “I am Father Christmas. You are Winter. I think we can get a pass.”

“Can I throw flowers?” Lisa asked.

“But…I was always taught—we can’t,” Len finished weakly.

Mick smiled at him. “What happened to the stuff you said about tradition? It’s a mold, this whole man and wife business. I’ll betcha that it’ll work.”

And Len, well. He could never resist a good wager. “I ain’t the bride here. _You_ dress in white.”

Mick scoffed. “It’s _my_ workshop you’re marrying into! And who says I’m a virgin anyhow?”

Len glared.

“I’m not doin’ it. Y’can’t make me.”

Len kept glaring.

“Len. _No_.”

Before Mick could give in, Lisa took both their hands and said, “Why don’t you wear whatever you want?”

Len smiled at his sister. “Wonderful idea, Lisa.”

Mick grunted, and it was decided.

One of the elves who checked the quality of art supplies was put to the task of commemorating the ceremony, should the marriage work. Lisa gathered a few other elves and reindeer together to help with the decorations. A bunch of other elves tune some instruments, and even more create a space in the large workshop proper.

Fussy as he was, Rip was one of the chief elves curtesy of the previous Father Christmas, so he was roped into officiating.

The wedding was set for the fourteenth of March, because Lisa liked March and what she called its “funny weather,” and the fourteenth was around the middle of it.

(“Beware the Ides of March,” Len deadpanned.

“What does that mean?” Mick asked.

“You really don’t use your library, do you?”

Len taught Mick Shakespeare’s greatest jokes. He knew he’d picked the right spouse when Mick snorted laughing at the puns.)

As a compromise, they both wore some form of white in their wedding-clothes. Len said he wanted silver and blue and Mick stuck with red and white.

Lisa added that her brother should dress up like a king. And who didn’t want to look like royalty on their wedding day?

So when Len walked down the plush red carpet to the altar, he was bedecked in enough finery to buy his own mansion. His blue cape had a borderline obnoxious train, with snow white fur on the shoulders. His jerkin was navy, with a silver sash, over a doublet and breeches trimmed with ribbon bows. His fingers were covered in rings of many sizes, shapes, and gems, while a large necklace draped from under his cape’s shoulders to mid-chest, diamonds and sapphires in silver.

Mick looked at him. Looked at his own red silk linen shirt and pants. Looked back up at Len.

“I feel as if I wasted an opportunity,” he said.

Len grinned deviously at him. “You did.”

“Damn.”

“Settle down!” Rip snapped, “We have a ceremony to perform, and I will not stand for any chatter!”

“Doesn’t Lenny look _lovely_?” Lisa cried.

Rip groaned over the elves’ universal agreement.

Mick rocked back on his feet. “You really do, y’know,” he muttered.

Len looked away with a smile. A cold breeze teased the room, light and airy.

The two of them said traditional vows, though they replaced words like “husband” and “wife” with the much preferred “partner.” Len got to show his mother’s touch by reciting Hebrew as part of his vows. Then came the more official business.

Len put his multitude of rings in Lisa’s flower basket, which had Mick snickering as Rip tapped his foot impatiently. Then a red sash, the same that went on Mick’s famous suit, was tied around Mick and Len’s joined hands.

“Life to life,” Rip recited, “magic to magic. May your— _partnership_ be as this sash. Though you may separate, you will never truly part. From this day forth, Winter and Father Christmas will be forever united in every mind. Where one goes, the other shall follow. Unless anyone objects?”

The reindeer and Lisa glared at the crowd. Only the elf at the easel moved to make another line.

Rip nodded. “Then your oaths are binding.” Len swallowed past his racing heart. “The ceremony complete. Ehm…this is traditionally where you would kiss, unless you want to—embrace, or something?”

Mick squeezed Len’s fingers. “Can I?”

Len blinked. “Um. Sure.”

Mick only pecked his lips, but the wind picked up all the same. Between them, the sash glowed and grew warm. For a moment, Mick looked every bit Father Christmas, and Len every bit Winter.

Then it was over.

Mick grinned. “You owe me a sunny day.”

“You act as if I can control the weather,” Len drawled.

Mick laughed. Everyone cheered.

It was a very happy start.


	3. Winter and Santa Claus, PART II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tried to go with just a short little fluff :D

_Central City  
December 24th, 2016_

Len sips his cocoa, savoring the milk and mini-marshmallows. The Grinch skitters across his TV. All is calm and quiet outside, the snow gently falling.

His watch says 7:35. He takes another sip, crossing his legs on the plush loveseat. This is a great safehouse for Christmas—classic suburb. And in Central, Len’s favorite city since 1828.

A commercial comes on. Another holiday sale at some jewelry store.

“Get your Mrs. Claus something wonderful this year!” chirps the woman’s voiceover.

And just like that, Len’s back to scowling.

He shoves up from his chair and goes to the kitchen for more cocoa. He’s almost finished with this mug anyway.

Batting away the angry snowflakes that formed over his head, he puts the kettle back on and gulps the rest of his cocoa, marshmallows and all, like it’s straight vodka.

Fuck whatever straight man said _Mrs._ Claus.

Len slams his reindeer mug on the counter.

Fuck whoever said Mrs. Claus only helped with toy-making and baking. Len can’t even bake, thank you very much.

And for the record? Santa Claus is an asshole. Sorry, kids, but he’s a criminal and a pyromaniac and he doesn’t even _like_ winter.

Len’s fists clench.

He knows he’s being immature and possibly ridiculous. When you’ve lived about four centuries, you realize these things. But you also realize you don’t have to acknowledge those things, because you are over four hundred years old and therefore have the authority of being an elder.

Even though Len has the health of a twenty year old and the body of a forty-four year old. He could make himself look like the classic granny if he wanted, but he doesn’t, and he never has, so _where_ did they get the impression that _Mrs. Claus is a granny_?

Len doesn’t even like red.

But anyway. He doesn’t have to say that he’s being immature and/or slightly ridiculous. He doesn’t even have to leave this house tonight. Lisa can ride his sleigh. It’s basically both of theirs anyway.

Len’s not needed this year.

He sneers at his mug. What is he, a Hallmark movie? Get it together.

The kettle shrieks. Len makes more cocoa and slathers it in a pile of mini-marshmallows so big it almost falls off the edge.

Snow’s already falling. His job’s done. Mick can do his damn job by his own damn self and Lisa can ride circles around him.

More commercials. None of them mention the name Claus, at least. Len’ll take it.

The Grinch _just_ comes back on when there’s a knock at Len’s door. Len would tense up, but he knows that knock, and he’s not in the mood.

But his visitor is insistent as always. Len really regrets keeping him around.

Swallowing another few marshmallows, Len reluctantly gets up again and opens the door.

“Rudolph,” he says. “What do you want?”

Rudolph, the fastest and most famous reindeer of them all, gone down in history, yada-yada, beats his hooves on Len’s porch.

At least he got the upper body shape down. Mostly. Somewhat.

“Mr. Claus,” he says, “please come back to the North Pole!”

His berry red nose makes Len grunt and rub his eyes. He waves off the reindeer’s apology.

“You wanna explain to me why you’re a half-naked centaur?” Len asks.

“I had to talk to you,” Rudolph says, like it’s obvious and completely logical and definitely not conspicuous. “I tried to ask your sister, but she said no.”

Good old Lisa. “That’s ‘cause she’s a good sister. Get inside before someone sees you.”

Rudolph ducks his head. His antlers still barely fit through the doorway. Len draws the curtains.

“Cocoa?” he drawls.

“Mr. Claus,” Rudolph whines, “you have to come back! Santa—”

“Made it clear that he knows what he’s doing,” Len says. He picks up his mug. “So you should skedaddle on back. I’m thinking a nice blizzard in Canada with your name on it.”

“But he doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Rudolph shouts. “You’d think that after centuries of practice he would, but he really doesn’t! And Lisa keeps saying that she’ll just take whatever routes he isn’t, and he has no idea which ones he’s taking, or which presents, apparently you two have a system? I don’t know? But he’s so confused and none of the presents are getting delivered and it’s already past eight and—”

“Breathe, kid,” Len says. “First off all, it’s 7:48, not past eight.”

“We’re still an hour behind schedule!” Rudolph shrieks. (He and Rip hang out too much.)

Len takes a long drink of cocoa. It’s good stuff, if he does say so himself. “So you want me to save Christmas, is that it?”

“Yes!”

“Hate to break it to you, but I’m Jewish.”

Rudolph groans, putting his head in his hands. Then, as if struck by sudden inspiration, he skips a little on his hooves and says, “What about a deal? I can give you something!”

“What would a reindeer have that Winter would want?” Len asks.

“Uh…good question.” Rudolph trills his lips. “Fine, forget that.”

Len can actually think of a few things, but he’s not telling if the kid wasn’t prepared.

Rudolph sighs. “Just…if I bring your team here, will you deliver your presents? If not for Santa, then for the kids.”

Shit. Dammit. Fuck.

Len can never refuse the kids card.

“I take names S, H, K, R, G, N, C, D, W, A, and J this year,” he says, “and only from the Northern Hemisphere.”

Rudolph blinks. “How does your system even _work_?”

Len raises his eyebrow. “Do you want me to do it or not, Rudy?”

“Don’t call me Rudy. And yes, of course. I’ll be right back.”

“Ta-ta.”

The moment he’s gone, Len turns off the TV and chugs his cocoa. Then he goes to the coat hooks by the door and pulls on his parka, boots, and gloves. A familiar anticipation bubbles in his gut, the kind that’s never died even after so many Decembers.

In his pocket are his goggles. In his other pocket is a photograph of Christmas, 1902, when Len had a blue inverness coat and Mick had a red, and they’re both standing by their sleighs. He doesn’t know why he swiped that year in particular when he left, or why he’d swiped it at all, but it’s there, and he doesn’t pull it out.

Sleigh bells ring. Len listens for the landing. Then he’s a flurry of snow up the chimney.

 

With modern times comes modern upgrades. Len has seatbelts, a cocoa maker—should his thermos run out—hidden compartments, cup holders, and a screen with apps, emergency buttons, and radio.

There’s also video chat, but unless Lisa wants to talk, Len ain’t using it this year.

And since the red sleigh is so ingrained, Len decided enough was enough and painted his blue and silver.

He takes his reins and whistles.

Once he’s in the air, his monitor chirps, “Good evening, Mr. Claus.”

“Winter tonight, Gideon,” Len says.

“Do you require anything, Winter?”

“Just tell the bastard I got it.”

“Very well.”

His Rogues make a bunch of loud greetings. Len flicks their ears with a playful wind.

Not a second later, Gideon says, “Winter, you have an incoming call from your spouse. Shall I connect?”

Len’s eyes narrow behind his goggles. “That would be a no, Gideon.”

“Then he wishes to tell you that you’re an idiot—”

“ _I’m_ the idiot?”

“—and that your behavior is very childish. There were some choice words, but I am a child-friendly system as per your requirements.”

Len grinds his teeth. “Then you can tell him that he should look in a mirror.”

He gets to the first house and goes for his sack.

“He responds that you are resorting to a third-party to talk to him, and are therefore more deserving of the proverbial mirror.”

“Ask him whose fault that is,” Len snaps, “I’ll be right back.”

The moment his ass is back in his comfy seat, Len hears Gideon say, “Mr. Claus would like to tell you that it was not his fault.”

The Rogues make reindeer noises that almost sound like “oooo,” as if they know just how much trouble Mick’s in for that comment.

Incensed, Len fills his thermos with cocoa and chugs half of it in one go as the wind around him picks up and the snow falls faster. Calm. He needs calm.

He wipes his face with his sleeve, too angry to even bother with the napkins he stored in the left compartment.

“Gideon,” he says with completely false calm, “tell _Santa_ that he can shove that little heat gun right up his ass and pull the trigger.”

The Tricksters honk laughter.

The West house is the last one in Central that’s on Len’s route. For all Joe and his family knows, their Barry Allen is off doing CSI-work. Len figured that, since the reindeer don’t fly for ten months out of the year, train for one, and officially fly for another, they should have something else to do. He figured they could be scouts for when Mick and Len can’t case the world for trends and gift ideas for those kids who just really don’t know what they want for Christmas.

While the magic of Christmastime makes concealing their true nature especially difficult, the reindeer have mastered human legs over the years, and Rudolph has made himself into a bona fide superhero who’s dragged a bunch of his buddies, _even his father_ , into it, up to and including Len’s Rogues. He lives in the West house from December 26th to November 1st. Simple concealment spell takes care of the gaps.

And maybe it’s because it’s Rudolph’s house that Len lets his feet stomp just a little too loudly. Or maybe Mick is able to get his emotions so high that Len loses it just a tad. Whatever it is, by the time he’s in the living room, Joe West is there with a gun.

“What are you doin’ here, Snart?” West snaps.

Len huffs and yanks off his goggles. “Tell me, Detective, what does it look like?”

He waves the green candy-cane pattern present and the handle of his blue sack.

West glares at him. “I’m not an idiot. Put the box down.”

Len shrugs and does so, just perfectly on top of its bigger counterpart. “You gonna let me get the rest, or do I have to give you a nice purple bow on your head?”

“Put your hands up.”

Len drops the smirk. “Look. I’m not having a nice night. So why don’t you head back up to bed and dream of sugar plums, and let me do my job?”

“Your job is a _thief_ , Snart.”

“Very fitting, don’t you think? Of course I’m not the big guy, though trust me, you wouldn’t want _him_ in your chimney.”

West steps closer. “I’m serious.”

“We both love breaking and entering, we love taking your food, and we always have one helluva getaway. Except _Santa_ ,” Len spits, “likes to prance around in his big coat and think he’s the boss with his chalices and fire and red-nosed-fucking-reindeer, as if that reindeer didn’t want to be on _my_ team _first_.”

West’s homicidal glare has a bit of confusion in it now. “What are you talking about?”

Despite his warnings, he does nothing when Len yanks open his sack and snatches another present.

“Did you know that Santa Claus doesn’t even like winter?” Len says, “No, if it’s below 65 Fahrenheit, he’s bundled up like a kid with an overprotective mother. As if I’d let him freeze. But perhaps I should. He should be somewhere in the tropics by now, of course, but I could make a little Christmas miracle happen right over his thick head. Then again, he let himself get behind schedule this year, because he kicked out his best asset, being _me_ , and the only reason I’m bothering to help him is because of the kids. Oh, he likes kids just fine, that’s who he is, but does he ever think of ‘em when he’s being an egotistical _fuck_? The answer is _no_ , Detective.”

Granted, Len hadn’t thought of ‘em either when he stormed out, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is Mick is an asshole.

Len snaps up and holds up a finger. “And another thing. If Barry comes in here bragging about what a good Christmas this was, you tell him from me that I will let Lisa paint his hooves as pink as she wants and make sure that shit _stays_. See what the shiny-nosed kid says after that. Fucking Santa Claus.”

West’s gun has dropped to his side as of the Fahrenheit remark. He stares at Len dumbfounded.

“One more thing,” Len says as he ties up his sack, “it’s _Mr._ Claus. Whatever patriarchal asshat who said otherwise can kiss my cold ass. And for the other commercials, I got another cheek. _On my ass_.” He puts on his goggles. “So fuck capitalism, Merry Christmas, and to all a good night.”

He shoves past West and kicks open the front door. He goes to the side of the house before dissolving into frost.

He’s almost positive West sees him take off, but it serves Mick right. Besides, it’s not like West will tell anybody.

Ugh. That was a terrible decision. Len needs more cocoa for this.

He’s climbed above the first cloud barrier when there’s a flash of lightning.

No. No-no. No.

“Snart!”

 _No_.

“Len!”

There it is, the iconic red sleigh and nine reindeer. And there’s the guy in red, only he’s bald as an egg and build like a prison-hardened criminal.

Christmastime magic can only do so much on the jolly front when Mick Rory is running hot.

“You should be in the tropics, Mick,” Len says, “We’ve got a job to do.”

A present hits his arm and the red sleigh disappears.

Len resolutely does not look at it. Santa Claus is _not_ getting out of this with a damn present on Christmas Eve. That might’ve worked in the early days, but it will not work now.

Peek-a-boo glances at him meaningfully.

“Eyes front,” he tells her.

It won’t work. It _won’t_.

The present wiggles.

Len’s fingers tighten on the reins.

 _Pat-pat-pat-pat_.

Dammit.

Len hooks his reins and snatches the present. It’s wrapped in beautiful blue paper with a silver bow, wide enough to fit across Len’s thighs and tall enough to reach his chest.

Okay, so Len _loves_ presents.

He methodically unwraps his gift. There’s a box with a letter attached. Official North Pole gold and red border stationary, all creamy and sweet-smelling.

In Mick’s rushed handwriting, it reads: _My fault. I need you. I really do. I’m sorry. Please talk to me. MR._

Len carefully folds it and, looking around as if he’s gonna get caught, stashes it in the compartment under his seat, right next to the chain of those absurd rings from his wedding day.

He turns to the box. It’s standard cardboard, for all its enchanted wiggling. And inside—

Len closes his eyes.

“Gideon. Put Mick on.”

“Connecting call.”

Mick’s face fills the screen. Len can’t see his eyes, but he knows he’s trying not to be nervous. Four centuries gives you time to know somebody’s ticks.

“Really, Mick?” Len drawls, “Star Wars merch?”

“Including a Darth Vader autograph book with signatures from the whole original cast, even Chewbacca, and the prequel cast is at the end because even though the prequels don’t exist, it’s not the cast’s fault,” Mick recites.

“I don’t make Christmas lists.”

“You want presents for Chanukah though. Just don’t write ‘em down. I owe Lisa a favor.” Mick shifts a little in his seat. “Um. There are chocolates in there too. Millennium Falcon-shaped. And that pillow you wanted. I made sure the DVDs aren’t the special edition, ‘cause they put in the CGI shit and screwed up Han’s shot. And—”

“Mick,” Len says, “I _am_ looking at the present.”

“Right.”

Len carefully puts the box next to his feet and retakes the reins.

“We’ll talk later,” he says.

Mick grins.


	4. I'll Be Home for Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3: naughty or nice  
> Mick's been in prison for three years before he escapes. Len decides to give him a welcome home present: fucking another man.
> 
> (aka, very very naughty codependent serial killers)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: use of the word slut in an insulting manner, mild gore, hints of cannibalism
> 
> Because what are the holidays without a dash of horror?

Len bites his lip as Don unbuckles his belt. He’s a big guy, Don—his muscles bulge under his light blue v-neck and dark jeans, complementing his thick five o’clock shadow and buzz cut. He looms over Len by a couple inches.

His cock’s a little small, but then again, Len’s used to bigger fish.

“On your knees,” Don rasps. Len obeys. “Show me what that mouth is for.”

Len nuzzles the thick vein on his dick, smiling coquettishly. He barely had to say five words for them to get here, in Don’s apartment no less. Good to know he’s still got it.

“Yeah…oh, fuck yeah.”

Len bobs his head, massaging Don’s hips with his thumbs. He makes sure to make all the right noises, getting Don fully distracted while he carefully maneuvers him so the backs of his legs are close to hitting the bed—in full view of the open bedroom door, and by extension, the front door.

They’re on the side. Len’s hollowed cheeks and half-lidded eyes are just as exposed as Don’s petting hands and parted lips.

Len’s eyes roll to the alarm clock. 8:45. Excitement pools in his stomach, prompting him to shift himself in his jeans.

They’re the tightest pair he owns. He checked.

Len pulls back just long enough to throw off his shirt. Don moans at the full sight of his tattoos, tracing the ones on his shoulders as he gets back to work.

“You’re gonna be so good,” Don whispers, “gonna fuck you so good.”

Len whimpers as loudly as he can. Talk that that should be encouraged.

“Yeah, you like that? Like how good I’m gonna give it to you? Gonna—gonna take my time, bend you over and make you scream, make you beg for it—”

Don pulls Len off and hauls him to his feet. Len takes the hint and works on his own belt.

“Then I’ll lift you up and fuck you just like that, just stand right here and fuck you, and all you can do is hold on and beg some more.”

Len steps out of his pants. He slinks to the front of the bed and lays himself out, spreading his legs.

It’s not his fault that Don thought he meant it was for him.

“Yeah,” Don says.

Len smiles. “Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_.”

Don stops.

That hadn’t been him.

“You’re late, Mick,” Len says, “Losing your touch?”

Don’s shout is choked off by Mick Rory’s hands around his throat.

“Thought you were gonna fuck ‘im, huh?” Mick snarls, “Thought you were _worthy_ to fuck ‘im? He’s _mine_ , you little shit!”

Don’s strong, but for all his muscle and height, Mick knows how to hold someone down. Keeping one hand on his throat, Mick pulls back his fist and starts punching.

Len sighs contentedly, putting an arm behind his head and stroking himself idly as Mick punches and punches and punches, not stopping even when Don’s a whimpering mess of blood and mucus.

But he should be alive a little while longer. After all, Len didn’t suffer for nothing.

Len gracefully rolls to his feet. With one hard shove, Mick’s back hits the wall.

“You fucking slut,” Mick spits, “think you c’n fuck anybody you want the second I turn my back, huh? You’re mine, you’re _mine_!”

Fortunately Len’s already pulled his pants down. Otherwise he would’ve gotten a face full of prison issue pants, and then where would they be?

Mick he sucks off more methodically. To the outside eye, he looks more detached, more mechanical. But Mick sees the happy arch in his brow, feels just how Len wants to make it good for him by making sure he hits every one of Mick’s buttons.

Mick’s nails scrape the back of Len’s neck. “Gonna burn ‘im,” he promises, teeth bared in a feral snarl, “gonna fuckin’ burn him alive, Lenny. Doesn’t fuckin’ deserve you, shouldn’t even say your fucking _name_ —orderin’ you around like that—“ his head bangs against the wall. “ _Fuck_!”

Len frees up his mouth with a wet slurp. “Bet you’re just dyin’ for somethin’ to burn, huh Mick?”

“You’re not funny,” Mick snaps.

“And you’re no saint,” Len hisses. He pins Mick next to Don in one move. “Think I didn’t see how your cellie looked at you? Think I wouldn’t know about a little fuck between _friends_?”

Mick grins manically up at him. “Oh, you saw that, huh?” He doesn’t sound surprised. “Maybe next time you’ll think about conjugal visits instead ‘a watchin’.”

“ _You’re_ mine,” Len growls, scratching down Mick’s chest, “you don’t fucking touch anybody else.” He grinds against Mick in earnest. “Or you _deserve_ what you get. _Merry Christmas_ , Mick.”

Mick slams him to the floor and kisses him. “’M gonna enjoy my gift. Gonna fuck you while he burns—you still taste like him, that _fucking_ —”

He pulls a knife from his discarded pants and slams it into Don’s stomach. Len covers Don’s mouth just in time.

Panting heavily, Len and Mick look back at each other.

“I fucking missed you so much, Lenny,” Mick murmurs brokenly. “Thought I was gonna tear myself up if I didn’t see you.”

Len reaches over and gags Don with his shirt. He breaks his arms real quick, Mick’s shoulders relaxing as he looks on.

“Come ‘ere,” Len whispers when he’s done.

They fall into each other, sharing more fervent kisses.

“Couldn’t do nothin’ without you,” Len snaps, “I fucking hate it.”

Mick hums. “Saw on the news. Cops didn’t catch yah though.”

“Was gonna let ‘em,” Len growls, “I was gonna fucking let ‘em, Mick, was gonna make ‘em take me to Iron Heights if I had to walk there myself.”

Mick licks up his neck and settles at his pulse point. “Would’ve enjoyed that. But ‘m glad y’didn’t.”

They lie there for a moment, clutching each other. Sometimes one would murmur “mine” and the other would say it back.

Then Len says, “I put kerosene in his closet and a book of matches.”

Don sobs. Mick moans.

“C’n I really fuck you while he burns?” Mick asks hopefully. “Make some barbeque?”

Len laughs. “Whatever you want.”

“ _Lenny_.” Mick kisses him again and again. “Fuckin’ love you.”

“Merry Christmas, Mick,” Len murmurs.


	5. Hallmark Cardigan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4: happy holidays  
> Mick gets a surprise visit on Christmas Eve and, somehow, ends up wearing a cardigan.

Christmas songs croon from the speakers in the corner. Tree’s on the other side of the room, lit up six ways to the holidays. Fire’s crackling and warm, lighting up the whole living room. Decorations are out, cheap things but oddly pretty, despite their cracking paint and unbalanced stands. There’s even a snowman in the front yard, pipe, button nose and all. Even got a ratty hand-me-down top hat from the thrift store.

Mick’s pretty sure he’s done everything.

He spikes his egg nog some more and glances at the Christmas snow while Snow Miser dances across his small TV. He’s pretty sure his friend Sara’s got a party going on tonight, but he didn’t get an invitation. Amaya hasn’t called either, or Jax, or Ray.

But they all sent gifts. Mick put them under his tree. Makes it look fuller, somehow. Prettier. Besides, Mick’s not one for Christmas parties.

Gonna be midnight soon. Mick chugs down his mug and gets up to get more egg nog.

When he comes back, _Frosty the Snowman_ ’s on the TV. Mick’s pretty sure he didn’t change the channel before he got up. Then again, his egg nog’s got enough holiday cheer to make things nice and buzzed. Guess he hit the thing with his ass.

The remote’s on top of the TV.

It should’ve been next to the chair.

Mick shakes his head and takes another sip. It’s Christmas Eve, he’s alone, and he’s drunk. Maybe bed’s a good idea.

Frosty’s happy face cuts to black. Mick targets Mariah Carey next.

“Whoa there,” a voice says, “don’t turn off Mariah Carey. That’s one rule you don’t break.”

Mick blinks owlishly at his window. It’s supposed to be pulled up, but somehow it’s open like doors. Cold Christmas air smacks his nose.

The stranger waves his pipe. “Got a match? I’d get one myself, but I tend to run cold.”

Mick is…very sure he’s drunk.

The—whatever-he-is has skin of snow and a coating of blue ice for shorn hair, both causing him to sparkle under the tree and firelight. His pupils are black as coal, blacker than any human’s, while his eyes flicker blue and green like Christmas lights. His button nose wrinkles a bit, elongating as Mick watches.

Mick numbly reaches into his pocket. “Thought there wasn’t nothin’ in there.”

A hissing breeze coils outside without any wind. Mick realizes it’s the stranger’s quiet laugh. The pipe’s held out between them, and Mick sees a wad of stuff inside.

The stranger takes a long inhale. “Mm. Not bad.”

Mick slowly puts down his egg nog. Pretty sure he’s had enough.

“Where are you going?”

“Bed,” Mick grunts.

“And leaving your guest? Not very polite, Mick.”

Mick almost asks him how he knows his name, but then he remembers: drunk hallucination.

The stranger wrinkles his nose again, but this time it’s with disgust. “Think you could get me another scarf? Red’s not really my color.”

Mick shakes his head. “I said I’m goin’ to bed.”

“And I said it’s impolite. How about something in blue?”

Mick shakes his head and heads to the shitty hooks by the door. “Think you got enough blue.”

“Never. I’m made of snow and ice, remember?”

Mick shakes his head again. “You ain’t my snowman.”

“For shame, Mick. You don’t remember building me? It was just this morning. And the name’s Leonard. Call me Duke again and I’ll turn _you_ into my broom.”

“Leonard?” Mick snorts. “Sure.”

“Len, if you like. Ah,” Len says as Mick offers a blue scarf, ratty and faded, “much better.”

He pushes his pipe between his icy teeth and quickly unwraps the red scarf. He’s not wearing anything else; his figure’s pretty undefined beyond his head, lumpy but mobile snow packed with the experience of a guy who hasn’t built a snowman in over thirty years.

Mick takes the red scarf. It… _feels_ real enough.

Len adjusts his new scarf, throwing one tail over his round shoulder. “Now then,” he says around his pipe, “why do you look so pathetic on Christmas Eve?”

Mick scowls. “You’re a figment of my imagination. You don’t get to lecture me.”

Len takes his pipe in one hand and raises part of the snow on his face. They take a more solid form, showing themselves to be eyebrows.

“You’re not drunk,” he says, “at least, not nearly enough for your tolerance level. It’s the first snow of the season, Mick, and it’s on Christmas Eve. You’ve seen _Frosty_ , haven’t you?” he grins deviously, tapping his top hat. “Very informative.”

Mick scrubs a hand down his face. “Ain’t no such thing as magic. Why’m I even talkin’ to you?”

“Because it’s polite to talk to your guests.”

“Shut up about _politeness_.”

“I’m not goin’ away, Mick. And neither is my sister.”

Mick’s head snaps up. “What?”

 _Knock-knock-knock_.

Len’s grin widens. He takes another puff.

Mick eyes him while cautiously opening the door.

“What the…”

A woman of painted gold shakes out her hair, long gown and wings fluffing with her. “Whew. Growing is such a pain.”

She smiles at Mick, looking almost identical to Len. “Name’s Lisa.”

When Mick only stares, she huffs and forcibly takes his hand to shake it. She’s freezing.

“I know,” she gripes when Mick shivers at her touch, “I would’ve been nice and warm if _somebody_ hadn’t stuck me next to their driveway. Now let me in; I’m due some Mariah Carey and heat.”

She thunks against Mick’s arm as she passes, a hollow sound that reminds Mick way too much of the shiny plastic angel he’d stuck outside last week. The angel that barely reached his knees.

The angel that’s no longer next to his driveway.

“Hey, sis,” Len says.

“Merry Christmas, Lenny,” Lisa chirps.

They snicker at each other.

Len takes Mick’s dumbfounded expression as a question. “We’re Jewish.”

Mick blinks. “My…snowman and Christmas decoration…are Jewish.”

“Angels aren’t _strictly_ Christian decorations, you know,” Lisa says with a pout, “there are Jewish angels. And I’m here to deliver a message.”

“Lay off the egg nog?” Mick guesses.

Lisa rolls her pupiless eyes.

“You’re alone on Christmas Eve,” Len says, “not unusual. Lots of people are.”

“But you’re one of the very few who still has that spirit in you,” Lisa says. “Light, hope, Christmas cheer, whatever you want to call it.”

Mick snorts. “Right…right. So, what? Are we gonna sing Christmas carols and have a holly jolly party?”

“Why so many decorations, Mick?” Len asks, gesturing at the tree with his pipe.

Mick shrugs. “I’s Christmas. That’s what y’do.”

Len pats his elbow at the window sill. Snow puffs off, making a more detailed arm in one _thud_. “I was here last year, Mick. All you had was a cheap bottle of booze and a shitty mug. Kudos on the new collection, by the way—reindeers are so much better.”

He lifts his new hand, revealing said reindeer mug. He takes a sip of the steaming drink, mouth melting into pretty lips. (Mick is not attracted to a snowman, Mick is not attracted to a snowman…)

“Mm,” he says, “cocoa isn’t cocoa without mini-marshmallows. You should try it sometime.”

Mick shakes his head for the umpteenth time. “I’m losin’ my mind.”

“No, you’re losing that spirit,” Lisa says. “You’ve put up all these decorations, turned on the movies and the songs. You bought gifts and received a few. Yet here you are, trying to drown your tears in egg nog.”

“I don’t do tears, lady.”

“ _Lisa_ ,” Len says, an edge in his voice, “My sister’s name is Lisa.”

Lisa smiles prettily. “Mick. My brother and I are the spirits of winter. I keep the parties going and the lights in the windows. He brings the snow.”

Len salutes with his mug. Mick puts his head in his hands.

“’Course you are,” Mick mutters, “’cause I couldn’t just have a normal drunk dream. I had to Scrooge myself.”

“Technically, we’re not ghosts,” Len says. He bangs his other arm on the window. “You really should’ve built more snowmen in your life, Mick. Very valuable skill to have.”

“Go suck a candy cane,” Mick mutters.

“Now, now,” Lisa says, “no need for that. We’re just trying to help you.”

“How?”

Len tilts his head. “Mick,” he says softly, “where are your friends?”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Mick snaps, “I ain’t some Hallmark sob story.”

“Where are they?”

“I dunno. Sara’s party, I guess.”

Lisa crosses her arms. “That stunning blonde girl? I thought she liked you.”

“I’m not the party type,” Mick says, “would’ve brought everybody down.”

“Bullshit,” Len says, “you’re all about fire, Mick, in more ways than one. You and Sara have a great time together and you know it. Face it: you don’t know why she didn’t invite you.”

Mick waves his hand. “She’s got the smart friends over. Guys from Star City.”

Lisa pinches the bridge of her nose. “You _do_ realize you built Lenny, right?”

“Thought he was the _spirit of winter_ ,” Mick mocks, “doesn’t matter what he uses to move around.”

“On the contrary. Take a good look at him.”

“He’s a _snowman_.”

“Who’s taken a very distinct shape, now that he’s worked out the kinks. Go on, look.”

Mick looks, because at this point, why not?

He blinks.

Leonard…Len… _wait_.

“I wasn’t thinkin’ of Leonard Snart when I made you,” Mick growls.

“Yet,” Snart says, “here I am. And I must say, it’s _wonderful_ to inhabit the image of an intellectual. And I have you to thank for that, Mick. The last snowman I was in had me singing like Burl Ives the whole time.”

“It was amazing,” Lisa stage-whispers, “and when he wasn’t singing, he kept asking people if they were married.”

“ _Lisa_ ,” Len warns, but Mick’s laughing.

Mick’s…laughing?

Lisa’s gold seems to get brighter. “Now _that’s_ the spirit.”

Mick sighs. “Snart has a sister too.”

“And where are they?” Len asks.

Mick scowls. “I don’t know.”

“Liar. I know an ex-con’s hands. And,” Len puts his pipe in his mouth and smacks the side of his head, prompting more snow to fall. “May not look it, but I’ve got ears. You’ve been keeping tabs on dear old Leonard Snart and his dearer sister. So?”

Mick needs more egg nog for this. “I know why I wasn’t invited, okay? It’s ‘cause _they_ were. So,” he says pointedly, “I’m glad I ain’t there.”

“Uh-huh,” says Lisa, crossing her gold arms. “Why are you glad you’re not with them? Did he do something?” Mick goes for more egg nog. “Did _you_ do something?”

“None of your damn business,” Mick snaps.

“Mick,” Len drawls, “why don’t you just pour a shot instead? Saves time.”

“It’s Christmas,” Mick replies, though he downs some egg nog like a shot before filling the whole cup. “Are you gonna leave me alone now, or do I gotta go out there with a flamethrower?”

“I’d like to see you try,” Lisa says with honeysuckle venom.

“Thanks, sis,” Len says, and dammit, he sounds just like _Len_. Fuck.

“Are you?” Mick demands.

“Not until you go to that party,” Len replies.

“…are you kidding me?”

Lisa bats her nonexistent eyelashes. “No.”

Mick snorts and heads for the stairs.

Turns out Lisa’s got a strong grip for painted plastic.

“Nice try,” she says.

“Dress up nice, Cinderella,” Len says, “for you _shall_ go to the ball.”

“No, I shall not, and you can fuck off.”

“Don’t make us dress you,” Lisa warns, “because we will.”

“And since you’ve had so much _egg nog_ ,” Len says, “we’ll drive you too.”

Mick narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He blinks.

Sara’s house, covered in and full of light, stands before him.

He looks down. Instead of ratty gray sweatpants and an ugly Christmas sweater he threw on for kicks, he’s in clean jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved Christmas red v-neck with a cotton cardigan.

A _cardigan_.

Mick doesn’t even own a cardigan. But he does own a coat. Why didn’t they give him a coat?

He looks behind him.

Lisa and Len wiggle their fingers at him. From an ice sleigh. Pulled by plastic reindeer from Mick’s neighbor’s lawn.

“Make sure you get a ride home with him,” Lisa says, “otherwise you’re walking!”

That _bitch_.

Before Mick can start yelling, they’ve disappeared down the street.

Mick clenches his fists and whirls back around, facing the house.

Through the bottom windows, he sees familiar faces milling around, laughing and bouncing to some upbeat Christmas music. Some of ‘em are the same friends who made excuses for hanging out on Christmas Eve that didn’t involve this party at all.

In fact, thinking about it, Amaya had been the only honest one. Even Ray said he’d be spending the holiday with Nate. Didn’t say anything else.

And. Well. That pretty much clinches it for Mick. If nothing else, he’s goin’ in there out of spite. And more egg nog.

His cell phone’s in his back pocket. He’ll call Uber when he’s done.

Swallowing past the hot lump in his throat, Mick smooths down his cardigan—fucking _cardigan_ , ugh (why is it so comfy, fuck this)—and walks to the door.

When Sara sees who it is through the side windows, her eyes widen.

“Mick,” she says, “uh. Hey. You look…nice?”

She sounds just about as surprised as Mick feels.

Mick tries not to shift on his feet. “Yeah, well. Thought I’d…stop by.” Because the spirits of winter told him to. Fuck.

He glances away from her—only to see Len staring him down by the drink table.

Damn it. Not even spite’s worth that shit.

“I, uh, forgot you were havin’ a party. See yah around.”

Unfortunately, Sara Lance is too nice.

“Mick, wait.”

Reluctantly, Mick turns.

Sara glances away, ashamed. “I should’ve invited you. It was a shit thing not to, especially on Christmas Eve.”

“Snart’s here,” Mick says. Sara’s lips purse, confirming his theory. “He wouldn’t’ve come if he knew I’d be here. Don’t sweat it, Blondie. I got egg nog t’be gettin’ back to anyway.”

“There’s plenty in here,” Sara says.

“Not the way I make it.”

He tries for a smirk. She tries for a smile. It’s all so polite and shit, and it fucking sucks.

Mick makes a beeline for the driveway. “Merry Christmas an’ all that,” he calls.

Doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he hears the door shut.

“Don’t you dare,” says one of Sara’s snowmen.

“Fuck you,” Mick snaps. It comes out more tired than anything.

He pulls out his phone and taps Uber. The Uber he shouldn’t need if his car was here. Then again, that’s another Christmas tradition: wasting lots and lots of money.

Mick’s on a roll this year, ain’t he?

“Mick.”

Oh come on. He hadn’t even set his pick-up spot.

Snart’s dressed in his favorite parka, all toasty warm while Mick freezes his ass off, ‘cause he’s an asshole.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

Mick scoffs. “I wasn’t invited. Don’t act all surprised,” he snaps, “it was you or me, and Blondie’ll always choose you.”

Snart’s eyes are hard. “It shouldn’t be that way.”

“And whose fault is that?” Mick waves him off. “Go back inside, Snart. Have fun with your sister, spike the egg nog, and whatever. I’m goin’ home.”

“Doesn’t look like you are. Where’s your car?”

“Up your ass and to the left.”

“You didn’t drive here?”

“No, a snowman kidnapped me.”

Snart huffs. “Very funny. And I suppose he gave you the cardigan?”

“Fuck you.”

“Mick.” Snart steps forward. “I’m not here for Sara.”

Mick glares at him. “Nice try.”

“I’m _not_.” Snart crosses his arms. Looking at some point over Mick’s shoulder, he says, “I came here ‘cause I thought you would.”

Mick’s fists clench. “How _sweet_. Fuck off.”

Snart meets his eyes dead on. “Why are you so ready to believe I left you behind for _our_ friends?”

“You want an alphabetical list, or chronological?” Mick sneers. “And yeah, I know what those mean.”

Snart’s eyebrows furrow. “Never said you didn’t.”

“They won’t believe you. And when you say _our_ friends, lemme tell you that Amaya’s the only one who said she’d be here. Thought _friends_ didn’t lie to each other.” Mick turns around and goes back to his phone. “It’s a fucking Hallmark masterpiece. All that’s missing is some sad music.”

“Does that make you the lonely girl on the sidewalk?” Snart asks.

“Fuck you.”

“’Cause that would make _me_ the broody love interest.”

“Fuck. You.”

“Now I dunno about broody, but…”

Snart steps in front of Mick. “I don’t plan on leavin’ you behind, Mick. You want me to choose between you or them, it’s you.”

Pick-up location…and…destination. Four minutes away.

Mick puts his phone back in his pocket. “How romantic. Now go away.”

Snart’s eyes narrow. “I’m serious, Mick.”

“You’re _serious_ ly getting on my nerves.”

Snart holds out a ring.

“Take it back,” he says.

Mick snarls. “ _Fuck you_.”

“I’m not marrying anyone else, Mick. You know it, I know it. Take it back.”

“What, a shitty speech and suddenly you think I’m gonna come crawlin’ back? You think I’m that stupid?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Snart growls, “and they shouldn’t either, if they know what’s good for ‘em.”

“Go back inside.”

“I told Sara I’m leaving.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I came for you. I don’t have a reason to stay.”

“You’re really startin’ to be a pain in my ass.”

They stand toe to toe.

“I gave Lisa my keys.”

“Then go get ‘em back. I’m sure they’ll all just be _thrilled_ to have you.”

“I don’t care.”

“That sound better in your head?”

“You stubborn _asshole_.”

“This coming from a lying motherfucker.”

Mick’s not sure who moves first, only that in the next second, they’re biting each other’s lips and Len’s got fistfuls of that stupid cardigan.

“Uh.”

They break the kiss. A guy in a Honda Civic is gawking at them.

“I…someone called for an Uber?” he says.

Mick and Len look at each other.

“I like ‘em,” Len says, “and I wanna keep seein’ ‘em. But if they’re not your friends, then they’re not mine. Mick.” He holds up the ring. Works his jaw a bit. “ _Please_ take it back.”

Well, joy to the world. It’s a real damn Christmas miracle. Mick can just imagine the music swelling.

“You’re one stubborn bastard,” Mick murmurs.

Len smirks. “I’ll pay you for the Uber.”

Mick snatches his ring back. “Deal.”

They climb in the car.

Mick doesn’t see the snowman give a thumbs-up.

He doesn’t see Len wink at him either.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy holidays!


End file.
